


If we close our eyes, it could just be me and you

by rockcandyshrike



Series: The Wardrobe (or I didn't realize my clothing kink was so strong until I wrote several fics of it) [1]
Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Anal Sex, Because This is Kinda That, Being Walked In On, But They Keep Going Anyway, Clothing Porn, M/M, Mission Fic, Oh My God So Much Clothing Porn, Semi-Public Sex, Undercover, What's the Opposite of Aliens Made Them Do It?, spiritassassin 2017 exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-10-13 12:30:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10513803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rockcandyshrike/pseuds/rockcandyshrike
Summary: Now this is a story all about how, Baze Malbus's life got flipped turned upside down, And I'd like to take a minute, just sit right there, I'll tell you how he impersonated a pimp with bad hair.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kaboomslang](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaboomslang/gifts).



> I tried for a serious summary, really I tried, but this isn't a serious fic it's a PWP that sprouted framing appendages. The title's from Love in this Club by Usher because I think I'm funny and I listened to it almost nonstop as I wrote this. Also Backseat by New Boyz because I had an idea of them fooling around in one of those cadillac speeders (you know the ones, they're sexy) but I couldn't make it work ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ Shout out to chuchisushi for reading this and giving me some awesome concrit, you the real MVP Chuchi. This is for kaboomslang AKA Joe and I hope you like it and it fulfills your prompt the way you wanted. I wasn't sure so I fulfilled it twice. Enjoy <3.
> 
> Oh I forgot! The prompt was: Public sex where they get caught/walked in on and just keep going.

Baze is a dead ringer for the dead mole.

Save for the scar on the left side of his face and a bit more fat on the corpse's, the two men were the spitting image of each other right down to the blasted _ears_.

As Cassian rifles through the deceased's pockets, Jyn and Bodhi couldn't help staring back and forth between the two, Jyn squinting at the body and Bodhi's eyes growing wider and wider by the moment. Unsmat Ijaaz, known to the local gangsters as Eskol “Skinny Bones” Tyrnith, had called in the mission he was working on to sabotage Imperial arms dealing in the region. His last transmission had reported that he’d been compromised and needed immediate extraction after one last meeting with a contact to pick up a piece of intel that was crucial to securing some powerful alliances for the Rebellion. 

Unfortunately, it seemed that Ijaaz had taken a needle to the neck and died just half an hour shy of the Rogue One team finding him. Chirrut is seated on the bed and praying for the murdered man, his voice washing gently over the cramped room Ijaaz had been holing up in. K-2SO is back at the ship as this was supposed to be quick, but it looks like it's going be a headache instead. Cassian straightens up and steps back from Ijaaz's body with a commlink in his hand. He glances between the dead man lying on the floor and the scowling man leaning against the wall.  


“He looks, ah, very similar to you.”

Baze's scowl deepens and he says, “I'm an only child. I don't have a long lost twin.”

“That's true,” Chirrut interjects, “When Baze took me home to meet his mothers, the three who were in NiJedha, the other two were visiting relatives in Khaqif at the time, they pulled out an album of his baby pictures and were gracious enough to describe each one to me, including the ones from his birth.” Chirrut rubbed his chin in mock-contemplation. "Though I suppose we can't rule out an immaculate Force conception giving you a brother.”

Baze snorts at his husband and kicks off the wall to stand next to Cassian and loom over the corpse, scrutinizing it slowly.

“If the Force were to give me a secret brother I never knew about, I doubt he would've been the type of man to be a spy.” Tilting his head, Baze comments, “And I doubt he chose the nickname “Skinny Bones” for himself.” 

The tension in the room dissipates a touch, Bodhi laughs though he looks guilty afterwards and Jyn's mouth wobbles as she tries to keep a straight face. 

“Have some respect for the dead, “Chirrut scolds and immediately turns sly, “It's not as though you're one to talk when you crush me under your weight every night.”

Cassian coughs.

“When we're sleeping,” Chirrut adds on with a doubletoothed uperzuu's smile.

Cassian shakes his head and continues scrolling through the last transmissions on Ijaaz's commlink. He pauses and brings the screen closer to decipher one particularly long message, brow furrowing and mouth pulling down. His head snaps up with an alarmed expression.

“Ijaaz was supposed to pick up the intel in two hours.”

The tension in the room returns and sharpens. Bodhi readjusts the strap on his goggles, his fingers running under the band, and he blinks rapidly as he looks around the room, mind racing for options. Jyn clenches her jaw but keeps her hands loose, a restless edge in her fingers.

“Where's the pick up? Would the contact meet with somebody else?”

“A club called The Thirsty Twi’lek two klicks from here, and no he won't.”

Eyebrows raise at the name of the club, but the team shifts into business mode.

Jyn snaps, “We need a new plan. If the contact won't meet with anyone else, we'll have to force a meeting. This mission is an extraction, we'll just change who we're extracting.”

Cassian swipes a hand over his beard, “The contact likely won't be willing to come with us. If it turns int-”

“It doesn't matter if we _take_ him wit-”

“Are you suggesting abduction?”

“I'm suggesting we-”

“Abduction isn't a bad idea.”

“It is if they have guards, Chirrut.”

“What Baze said, the contact is highly dangerous and-”

“Guys, I think I have an idea.”

Heads whip around to look at Bodhi who falters for a moment under the combined laser focus, but then rallies himself and points at the body in the middle of the room.

“Well Ijaaz looks a lot like Baze-”

And that's how Baze found himself sitting in the back of a stuffy club wearing the most garish outfit in the entire galaxy.

They had raided the closet filled with the clothing Ijaaz wore as part of his disguise. Eskol “Skinny Bones” Tyrnith is supposed to be a man obsessed with wealth and image. A man who has to have the most expensive goods and the latest fashions. Which means Baze is wearing a finely-spun gaberwool cashmere turtleneck, the cream color set off by the brown of his skin and the formfitting cut hugging his body. He has a passing thought that it’s probably bad luck to take a dead man’s things, much less his clothing, but since they really belong to “Skinny Bones,” who never existed in the first place, he pushes it out of mind. Ijaaz may have had 20 or so pounds on Baze, but the sweater is made of an elastic and surprisingly durable weave. To be truthful he quite likes it. He’s never worn something so cozy before and the fabric is more breathable than he’d imagine. 

That's not what makes the outfit horrible—it's the velvet blazer. The _purple_ velvet blazer. Embroidered with pink flowers that remind Baze of the ooyilek flowers worshipers would bring as offerings to the temple, the delicately pointed petals that curled up to brush a person's face if they brought it up to their nose to smell its pleasing perfume, with their golden stamens covered in pollen that would go straight up a person's nose if they sniffed too hard. The buttons were pearlescent, but Bodhi had insisted he keep the blazer opened. Not that it made any difference regarding how ridiculous he looked. Jyn had snickered as he put it on and even Cassian had smiled, though he at least had the decency to hide it behind his hand.

That alone would make Baze feel unspeakably gaudy, but then there's the pants. Ijaaz had shit himself when he died, so they had dug through his drawers until Chirrut had flourished a pair of pants with a triumphant “Aha!” His husband had of course chosen the softest and most extravagant trousers in Ijaaz's “Skinny Bones” wardrobe, and possibly on the whole planet. They’re a dark green hue that bumps up the vividness of his blazer to eye-searing, but the fact that his trousers are made of tomoun cloth is absurd to Baze. One of his old mercenary colleagues had told him of a job she took on Askaj to kill the weaver of her employer's rival tribe. They couldn't do it themselves because harming a weaver was taboo in their culture; an offworlder doing it neatly circumnavigated that. She shot the weaver clean between the eyes, but ended up having to fight her way out of the village and lost an arm to a furious Askajian with a jagged machete. She barely survived the infection that raged through her body for weeks. Her employer's paid her a crate of tomoun cloth as a bonus, and she sold it for enough money to buy a state-of-the-art dexisynth arm with a quollidium core that could transform into an augmented plasma disintegrator in half a blink. The fabric covering his ass cost enough to feed a family of 12 for a year.

Not only that, he's wearing a sithfucking fur-trimmed cape of all things. The collar is made of Potolli fur—Baze had seen _royalty_ wear Potolli fur when he'd once gone to Naboo on a milk-run hit during some sort of ceremonious holiday—and the sleek sable tickles his jaw when he turns his head. The silver aeien silk lining the cape glides like cool water against the back of his hand when he reaches for the glass of whiskey he’s sipping from to keep up his cover, and it shimmers like moonlight when he pulls his hand back. The cape is without a shadow of a doubt the most ostentatious demonstration of luxury Baze has ever seen let alone drape around his shoulders. It had swished about him when he had walked into the sultry club, and it was acutely flamboyant compared to the drab, utilitarian, and weather-proof cloak he usually wore during missions. Baze doesn’t want to imagine how many credits this thing is worth. Where in the nine layers of hell had Ijaaz found all these clothes? Was this what the Rebellion’s budget was going towards?

To top it all off, Cassian and Bodhi had herded him into Ijaaz’s restroom to style his hair into the side-sweep that somehow made Skinny Bones look even sleazier. The amount of product they had put in his hair was appalling and Baze dreaded having to wash it out later. Jyn had been no help because, “the most I can do is tie up my hair and run a kohl stick round my eyes.” At least the earpiece he was wearing so Cassian could whisper lines to him was hidden. Cassian had applied something to cover up his scar and Bodhi had found a bottle of cologne, but Chirrut had wrinkled his nose at it and smacked it away with his staff, expressing his opinion that “my husband may be dressing up as a pimp, but he’s not going to smell like a baby prostitute.”

Small mercies.

The club had a no weapons allowed policy, so of course Baze has four on his person in various secret pockets. Normally he would have a hold-out blaster in his boot as well, but he’d been forced to trade in his dusty well-worn boots for a pair of scaly crosh-hide shoes. He actually wasn’t irritated at having to wear them; they were steel-capped and pointy and optimal for kicking someone in the crotch. He hid a pistol in Chirrut’s boots anyway, much to his husband’s consternation. He also has some weapons concealed within accessories that they’d found in Ijaaz’s dresser. Baze has to admit the collection Ijaaz had amassed is impressive, though the only piece he likes is the charcoal suede belt with a hidden knife in the buckle which he was absolutely going to keep. The ring on his right pinky finger is ugly and overwrought, covered in intricate gold filigree and set with dozens of fake diamonds surrounding the larger hollow one in the middle that holds several cyanide pills. The over-sized watch on his right wrist does hold a very sturdy garrote wire, but it’s far too obvious and makes him look like an easy mark. He’ll pawn both of them off later and use the credits to buy Bodhi a nice neck-brace after he wrings the pilot’s skinny neck for coming up with this harebrained scheme. 

A sniff by his exposed ear breaks Baze out of his ruminations on whether the Force really is sentient and whether it has a sick sense of humor too. He turns his head to the side, the damned collar brushing against his face again, and looks at Chirrut’s disgruntled expression, the furrow in his brow and the purse of lips indicating a complaint he wants to share.

“The air in here is thicker than the congee Auntie Steos’i used to make and I want my staff.” 

Baze grunts in agreement; the club is poorly ventilated and there are so many sentients smoking from little pen devices that he suspects no one would notice if a fire were to break out. He squeezes the hand wrapped around his husband’s waist soothingly and can’t help but smile at Chirrut’s harrumph.

“Your staff is safe on the ship with the rest of our things. It would’ve been confiscated by security anyway. You’re the one who volunteered to come, darling.”

“But of course, I wasn’t going to let you enter this wretched hive of scum and villainy alone.”

(Chirrut had looked at Cassian off-center, though he was evidently going for dead in the eyes, when the captain had suggested Chirrut cover the exits with Bodhi and Jyn. Cassian had opened his mouth to argue with the monk when Bodhi blurted out, “Chirrut can go as his arm-candy.”

The faces everyone made could’ve been described as a mix of mortified and amused. Except for Chirrut’s. Chirrut’s was smug.

Jyn had tilted her head, “You’d make decent arm-candy.”

Chirrut had flashed a gummy smile, “I’d make amazing arm-candy.”)

Baze rubs his thumb along his husband’s side as he takes another small sip of whiskey, his poison box ring clinking against the glass. Skinny Bones had VIP membership and a running tab at The Thirsty Twi’lek, but it certainly wasn’t going to be paid off now. He wishes he could drink in earnest because the whiskey is excellent and every time he looks at his husband his mouth goes dry. Chirrut is fucking phenomenal arm-candy. He’s wearing a blue linen shirt a shade brighter than his eyes that falls to mid-thigh in what Bodhi had called “boyfriend-style.” He was also _not wearing any pants_ and it’s slowly driving Baze mad. Whenever he crosses his legs the hem rides up and Baze gets an eyeful of golden skin and firm muscle. The top two buttons are undone and the shirt collar spreads open to show off his collar bones. The dark red mark Chirrut had goaded him into biting into the hollow of his throat was a glaring sign that this man was his—as if the possessive arm pulling him into his side wasn’t enough. Not to mention Chirrut keeps petting his chest, his arms, his thighs, and overall being incredibly tempting.

It didn’t help at all that earlier as Baze had steered Skinny Bones’ illegally souped-up swoop bike (where in the worlds did Ijaaz get a chrome abomination with an engine that roared so loudly it made his bones vibrate) to the club with Chirrut molded to his back, his husband had been running his hand up and down his belly, the plush sweater rubbing against his skin tantalizingly. His other hand had been teasing back and forth across his belt, lightening the color of the suede in one direction and darkening it in the other, fingers playing at the buckle. Baze had nearly crashed into the back of a transportation speeder when Chirrut started nibbling on his ear, tugging it between his teeth and scraping his teeth along the shell of his ear, then nipping at the sensitive spot behind it. Combined with the rumbling between his legs, Baze had driven into the parking structure with his pants feeling a bit too tight—thinking about it is making his trousers constrict again.

Baze takes another sip.

Chirrut smirks, the knowing little shit, and leans his head against his shoulder. “That must be very good whiskey if you’re risking getting drunk on this mission.”

“I’m not,” he bites out from behind his glass as takes a gulp. He’s been in enough bars and cantinas to have built up a rather high alcohol tolerance.

“You should share,” Chirrut chides with a widening smirk.

Baze rolls his eyes and hands the glass to his husband, but Chirrut sets it on the table and grabs his chin, pulling him into a searing kiss. He flicks his tongue against his lips, lapping at the seam of his mouth and drawing an involuntary moan from Baze. Chirrut seizes his advantage and licks into Baze’s mouth hungrily, each stroke of his tongue against Baze’s lighting flames up his spine, Chirrut makes an obscene noise and Baze has to fight the urge to move his hand and caress his husband’s chest, to pinch his nipples the way he knows makes Chirrut shiver like a leaf in a storm. He grips hard on his hip instead as Chirrut sucks his lower lip into his mouth enticingly and scritches his fingers through his beard under his chin, exactly the way that makes Baze melt like a pat of butter on fresh hot kradeacakes.

Chirrut breaks the kiss and smacks his lips with a hungry expression, “Delicious.”

Baze clears his throat hurriedly; at the same time, Cassian’s tinny voice buzzes in his ear, “Please control yourselves and focus on the mission.”

Baze leans back from Chirrut to settle against the studded back of the corner booth they’re sitting in. He’d forgotten for a moment that Cassian was keeping watch at the bar, nursing a drink of his own and most likely regretting his life choices. Chirrut drags his hand down Baze’s neck and casually pats him on the chest, his spike of lust ostensibly quelled. The old cognac leather banquette seems to draw his attention away; he keeps sliding a calf along the edge of his seat and swirling the fingers of his other hand around the divots by Baze’s shoulder, but then Chirrut buries his face between his turtleneck and the fur collar and makes a delighted sound verging on a giggle. He’s clinging to him like a limpet and Baze is chagrined to realize that his husband must be getting touch-drunk. The different sensations of Baze’s lush clothes must be enthralling him, each article of clothing appealing in a distinctive way. Chirrut has always had a taste for refined things antithetical to the ascetic principles of the Guardians of the Whills—Baze had bought him the red translucent silk he tied around his waist and had been rewarded with quite a lot of sex—and the fact that Baze is now the one wearing lovely-to-the-touch (though in Baze’s opinion gaudy and ungodly to the eye) clothing must be doubly intoxicating for him.

“Chirrut,” he warns in a low voice.

“We want this to look authentic don’t we?” Chirrut cajoles sotto voce as he rubs his hand through the velvet on his blazer, fluffing the fabric up and then smoothing it down repeatedly, his teeth scraping along his bottom lip when Baze grasps his wrist and growls, “Behave.”

“All right, all right, I’ll stop,” he murmurs, though he doesn’t look sincere at all when he says it.

Baze is about to scold Chirrut on there being a time and place for everything, when Cassian curses emphatically in his ear, “Shit. A gang of Viytss bounty hunters just walked in. They’re going table to table with a holo of us. Get ready to slip out, I’ll try to run damage control and have the contact meet us elsewhere.”

Baze deliberately does not tense up, but it comes as no surprise when Chirrut asks him, “What?”

“We need to go. Viytss mercs looking for us.”

“Viytss? Aren’t the Viytss those puritanical hunter-warrior amphibians?”

“Yes, and they hate humans too.”

There had once been a cadre of Viytss assassins sent to Jedha to eliminate the local branch of a far-reaching interplanetary mob family and they had wiped out nearly everyone. They were brutal and relentless; Baze remembers how the Guardians had stepped in to protect a woman who had come to the temple for sanctuary and the Viytss that tried to break in after her anyway. The ensuing firefight had left Guardian Noebh with a shattered tibia—xir leg had never been the same. The woman had to be smuggled out of the tunnels underneath the city to leave the planet completely. 

Chirrut makes a contemplative noise and Baze is about to stand when his husband grabs his forearm and pulls him back down. “Wait, Baze, do you remember how the rumors flew when the Viytss were in NiJedha? Everyone was talking about how prudish they were, glaring at every person whose sleeves they considered too short,” he tilts his head as he adds, “And do you remember how Guardian Ymi followed them as they scoured through the city for that woman who pleaded for sanctuary? Ze once told me a joke about how they had given a block wide berth of the buildings that housed the worshipers of The Lady of Negotiable Affection.”

“You mean the brothels in the red-light district?”

“Yes I mean the brothels in the red-light district. Come here.”

Chirrut uncrosses his legs and swings one over Baze’s thighs, holding tightly on to his shoulders as he straddles his lap. Baze splutters, “Time and place Chirrut, this is neither,” but his husband takes his left hand and guides it under his shirt to feel the coiled strength in his thigh. He takes his right hand and guides it to the hold-out blaster Baze had hidden in his boot. “They _should_ leave us alone,” he says with a worrying emphasis on should, “but it’s never a bad time to practice your quick draw, Master Malbus. Just don’t shoot your cannon too fast,” Chirrut quips as he palms Baze’s groin.

This is a _crazy_ idea, but Chirrut does have a point. They’re sitting in the far back corner from the entrance and the Viytss will have full line of sight on them if they try to leave. The restroom isn’t an option because it doesn’t have any windows, and according to their recon of the building earlier there’s only one back exit and it’s behind the bar (the club is definitely not up to city safety codes). They still have to wait another ten minutes or so for the informant, and he doubts Cassian will be able to convince them to meet somewhere else on such short notice. But the booths in the VIP lounge are partitioned off from each other with fancy–and more importantly–nontransparent silk screens, and it’s true that the Viytss are repulsed by humans, sex, and humans having sex. He leans around his husband to glance through a slim opening in the partitions, but Cassian has vanished. Baze sighs to himself, he supposes there’s nothing for it; even a half-baked plan is better than no plan. He takes Chirrut’s hand and guides it to his face to feel the reluctant up-turn at the corner of his mouth, “We want this to be authentic don’t we?”

Chirrut smothers his laugh into his mouth and unbuckles his belt single-handedly, keeping his right hand spread out on Baze’s cheek to cover his face. Normally he would make quick work of it, but he draws it out, feeling up Baze’s cock through his pants in between sliding the suede through one belt loop at a time. Baze groans at his foolishness, taking his hands off Chirrut to undo it himself in a flash and then latching back onto his lean powerful body. He reaches behind Chirrut to scratch lightly at the base of his spine—Chirrut arches against him and makes a half-choked whimper that fills his heart to bursting with adoration for this mad reckless dreamer he’s sworn his heart to. He presses his face into his husband’s chest and smears a trail of kisses down the open vee of his shirt. He undoes the rest of the buttons with his tongue and teeth and bites down on the exposed underside of his pectoral where he knows Chirrut is sensitive. Chirrut sucks in a breath as if he’s been punched and his fingers scrabble at Baze’s zipper to properly free his thick cock.

Chirrut brings him to full hardness with rapid jerks of the wrist, twisting around the head just how Baze likes it, the blood in his veins beginning to boil as he bites Chirrut’s other pectoral and works on leaving a bruise. Chirrut gasps out his name like a benediction as he grasps both of their lengths in his hand and strokes them together with increasing fervor. Baze pulls him in closer as he licks one of his nipples and the high sharp sound his husband makes spurs him to pull it with his teeth—Chirrut retaliates with a devastating roll of his hips and they both moan deeply. Chirrut purrs, “That feels good, my love,” as he continues leaving hickeys on his chest, until his nose bumps against something. He draws back muttering, “What’s this?”

Chirrut grins like a feline with a bird fluttering weakly between its paws when he fishes a small bottle of slick from his shirt pocket. Baze doesn’t know whether to be surprised or not as his husband cackles, “A Guardian must be ready for anything.”

“Such as getting fucked in a skeevy cantina.”

“Precisely, though I’m still technically prepped from when we made love this morning. Now hold out your hand.”

“When and where on this Force-forsaken planet did you find that,” Baze asks as he does as he’s told, Chirrut spurts a decent amount of lube into his hand and snaps the lid closed, dropping the tube next to his knee.

“In Ijaaz’s bathroom drawer as you were trying on his shoes and Jyn and Bodhi laughed at you.”

Baze snorts as his fingers travel down the cleft of Chirrut’s ass to circle his hole. It’s somewhat awkward using his left hand since his right is still clamped around the pistol in Chirrut’s boot, but his husband bears down and a digit slides in with scarcely any resistance. Chirrut pants and nuzzles into his cheek as he opens him up fast and rough; they don’t have the time to linger and prolong this as they normally would because there’s no telling when the Viytss will look into their booth. Judging by his cry when Baze curls his fingers into the sweet spot that drives Chirrut wild, he doesn’t mind the less than gentle treatment at all. He fucks back against Baze’s fingers and when he scissors them and ducks his head to suck on his husband’s pulse point, Chirrut keens, “Get inside of me now.”

Baze obeys as quickly as possible and pulls out his fingers and slicks his length with the excess on his hands as Chirrut kneels up—he guides the head into Chirrut’s entrance and nearly bites his tongue in half to hold back a shout when Chirrut takes it all in a sudden snap of his hips down, uncaring of the belt buckle poking into the back of his thigh. Chirrut looks _euphoric_ sitting on Baze’s cock with his head tilted back smiling vacantly at the ceiling, his throat a long gorgeous curve punctuated by the love bite at the notch. An electric surge of pure wonder and animal lust courses through Baze; this is his husband and his alone, this beautiful man with his kyber-bright smile, his toned body shining with sweat and framed by the shirt falling off his shoulders, his flushed red prick twitching against Baze’s cream sweater. 

Baze watches spellbound as Chirrut starts rocking his hips in short movements, tiny “ah!”s falling from his mouth at every drag of his cock along the cashmere. He grinds down hard and makes rapturous noises at the feeling of Baze’s tomoun cloth pants against his ass; Baze can’t help but grab Chirrut’s face with both hands and kiss him to taste the ecstasy on his lips. It’s wet and messy and Baze is drowning in it—and then Chirrut starts riding him into next fucking year.

Chirrut clutches him by the lapels of his outrageous velvet blazer, but Baze couldn’t be more grateful for the damned thing in this moment because it gives Chirrut the perfect leverage to swivel his hips around and bounce up and down on Baze’s prick. He bares his teeth in a feral grin when he clenches down and a truly vulgar swear explodes from Baze’s mouth. Chirrut laughs and Baze takes his hips to pull him down as he thrusts up savagely and the laugh gets caught in his husband’s throat, tangles up in his heaving chest that’s red from the splotchy blush he always gets when they have sex and the beard burn and love bites from Baze lavishing doting attention upon his skin, and then unravels into a _scream._

Of course that’s when the Viytss slam open the silk screen shielding them from the eyes of everyone else in the VIP lounge. If there’s anyone left in the VIP lounge when there’s a gang of Viytss mercenaries trawling through the club for conceivably anyone who patrons an establishment such as The Thirsty Twi’lek. Baze couldn’t care less as he watches from the corner of his eye and bites another hickey into Chirrut’s neck. The Viytss mercenaries flinch away in revulsion from the wanton display before them. Baze can imagine what they see—Chirrut’s golden back gleaming with the tense muscles picked out in relief, their legs spread wide as they brace against the seat and the floor so the slap of their skin rings through the whole room, Baze’s hands groping his husband’s ass as he fucks him stupid. He sees them recoil with disgust when he slaps Chirrut’s ass with both hands and his husband _sobs_. The Viytss leave hands raised in front of their faces posthaste; one loiters behind the rest and Baze snarls, draws the hold-out blaster, and shoots at its feet. It skedaddles after the others fast enough to enter hyperspace.

Chirrut stops for a moment and lets out a watery chuckle, “I told you it would work.”

There are overwhelmed tears glittering on his eyelashes and Baze tosses the pistol next to the bottle of slick. He brings his husband close so he can kiss them away, quiet loving shushes and endearments spilling from his mouth as he holds Chirrut’s face, thumbs smoothing away the little lines that surround his eyes. They touch foreheads and share breath as Baze runs his hands languidly down his body, grounding Chirrut and letting his shaky breathing even out again. Chirrut inhales as deeply as he can, then exhales slowly into a sheepish laugh.

“Are you alright, dear?” Baze asks tenderly.

“I lost my head for a moment there, but I’m fine now,” Chirrut assures him sweetly, pecking him on the forehead, the nose, both cheeks, and the mouth before pinning Baze back against the banquette with a devilish smile, “I’m not done with you yet, my beloved.”

A thrill pierces through Baze like a bolt of lightning, the kind that strikes the Jedhan sands and leaves behind a crystallized spear pointing to the sky, a testament to nature’s danger and beauty. Baze is transfixed once more when Chirrut laces his fingers behind his neck, dipping them under the soft folded collar, and rides Baze like he has all the time in the world. Like he has all of eternity to devote to this, sliding hot and tight on his cock and looking like a wet dream, and there’s nothing else he’d rather do. When he drags his nails down his thighs, Chirrut whines and clamps his knees around Baze’s sides and quivers—that’s all the warning he gets before Chirrut crushes their lips together, the narcotic effect of his kisses pulling him under again, and the leisurely pace soon devolves into the frenetic rhythm of skin on skin. 

The squeaking of the leather underneath their eager bodies plays a wonderful counterpoint to the lewd sounds of their mouths devouring each other. But the loveliest song to Baze’s ears is Chirrut begging him to take him harder, faster, to make him _fly_. What can Baze do but obey? He pushes his shoulders back against the seat and plants his feet, so he can ram into his husband hard enough to force Chirrut off his knees onto his toes and keeps him there. He grips his thighs as he thumps back down onto the seat and the action pulls him out until just the tip of his throbbing length is still inside his husband’s blazing heat. Chirrut opens his mouth for what Baze is sure is a categorically vicious tongue-lashing, before he drops Chirrut back onto his cock with a resounding smack, letting gravity do the work for him. Not a single sound comes out of Chirrut’s slack mouth as his eyes roll back, and Baze can’t help but feel exceptionally proud of himself; it may be conceited for a person to describe themself as a fantastic lover, but damn if he doesn’t know how to please his husband.

Chirrut is delirious, but he scraps enough of his brain cells together to grab Baze by the back of his head and pour all of his love and affection and sheer desire into a kiss that would make him collapse with liquefied knees if he weren’t already sitting. They’re racing towards the end, chasing that high, climbing towards that peak from which they’ll throw themselves off in each others’ arms, spiraling dizzy and alight with need. Baze sets his nose against Chirrut’s temple and breathes in the scent of his hair and sweat, raising a hand to—

“Apologies for being late Skinny Bones, but there were Viytss mercs-ACK!”

—snatch up his pistol and point it at the droid. 

“You’ll stay there,” he rumbles in a voice brimming with menace and thunder, “until we’re done.”

It cowers and assents with a “Very well, very well!” and Baze places his blaster on the table with the muzzle pointed towards it, his finger still on the trigger even as Chirrut makes a needy whimper into his ear. He half turns his head into his husband’s face and whispers filthy promises of what they’ll do when they get back to their room, free from time constraints and prying eyes, how much he wants to get his mouth between Chirrut’s thighs. Chirrut bucks his hips uncontrollably and then yanks aside Baze’s collar to bite down _hard_ on his throat, his prick pulsing once, twice, thrice…

and then another five times across Baze’s torso. Chirrut ripples around Baze so intensely that he’s tipped over the brink as well. His orgasm wracks through him fiercely; a guttural groan is wrenched from the very depths of his soul and stars come to life, die, and implode behind his eyes as he spends inside his husband for what feels like forever. When he comes back to himself, his heartbeat is a booming cannonade in his ears and Chirrut’s slack frame is slumped against him. He prods him in the side and Chirrut makes a hoarse whining noise, but slides off of him ungracefully, Baze’s cock unsheathing from his hole and his sweater unsticking from his abs and chest. Baze blushes and glances at the contact, but the droid has its back turned to them and its arms covering the parts on its head that receive audio input.

He pulls out the handkerchief from his pocket, wets it with the condensation from his glass, and wipes Chirrut clean. His husband just trembles and sighs, blissed out and content. Baze straightens out his clothing and then tries to dab off the mess on his turtleneck. He gets what he thinks is most of it, and buttons up his blazer; he doubts the sweater will ever be clean again, even if he finds some service to clean it. Thankfully the color hides it. He takes a swig of his whiskey, and coaxes Chirrut into drinking some to soothe his raw throat. He feeds him an ice cube to suck on, and then knocks the rest back before slamming the glass onto the table, tucking Chirrut into his side, and turning back to the informant with his hand on his pistol. He’s disinclined to shoot the droid who’s been astonishingly patient waiting for “Skinny Bones” to finish fucking a hot piece of ass when its carrying important data. Albeit, it found that patience at the end of a blaster, but still.

Baze composes himself and then addresses the informant, “55-SH.”

“Skinny Bones,” it spins around and responds carefully. It sits opposite the pair and seems to search for something to say, finally deciding on, “Let’s keep this brief. I have the info, you have the credits, we swap and I go scrub memory banks of this evening. Deal?”

Baze is surprised by the contact’s tractability, but doesn’t sense any subterfuge or deceit in the droid. Neither does Chirrut, who even though he’s snuggling into Baze’s side and is still spaced out, can always hear a lie. Nonetheless, he checks, “It’s the info I asked for, right?”

“Yes, yes, it’s the info you asked for. Deal? Or no deal? Because I can find other buyers I assure you.”

It can’t, but Baze can tell 55-SH is honest where it matters. He takes out the designated credits and they make the switch. “Pleasure doing business with you,” it intones and begins to leave.

“Are the Viytss gone?” Chirrut rouses himself enough to inquire.

“They were coming out the door when I entered.”

Chirrut’s self-satisfied expression speaks volumes; Baze simply grunts and scans the room, and pauses. There’s no one left in the VIP lounge. He can still hear people in the main part of the club, but the lounge is empty. Baze thinks for a beat, and decides everyone probably left because they thought the Viytss were coming for them. The Thirsty Twi’lek is the sort of place to attract lots of sentients who’d have a reason to vacate the premises if a gang of Viytss mercenaries were to stroll through. He pockets the lube and hold-out blaster, pulls out a bigger pistol, and takes Chirrut by the hand to lead him to the bar. The bartender is also gone, so the two walk out the back exit unbothered. Baze realizes he hasn’t heard from Cassian for a while and spares a moment to worry about his little ones until Chirrut winds his arms around Baze’s and says, “We should return to the ship.”

They hurry back in double time through the chaotic twisting streets with their condemned buildings sinking into each other like drunkards and teeming with squatters and criminals. Baze will be overjoyed once they’re off this forsaken dwarf planet. They progress warily, but they never detect any Viytss bounty hunters. Sentients scurry past and around them, as though they’re a pair of inexorable sharks swimming with purpose through inconsequential fish. K-2SO greets them at the open hatch with a narrowing of his apertures that uncannily resembles a squint.

“Oh you’ve returned, and late I might add. The others aren’t here yet, nor have they radioed me in the past twenty minutes, so unless they get here now there’s an 84.1% chance of them being dead.”

“KAY START THE SHIP.”

Cassian is bolting towards Rogue One, his long legs eating up the distance between salvation, him, and the raging gang of Viytss mercenaries chasing him. Bodhi is following close behind with Jyn over his shoulder who’s shooting her blaster at their pursuers. When one poofs in front of the three out of thin air, Jyn arcs her back like a viper to blow its head off point-blank. They curve around the corpse and continue tearing across the ground without pause.

“Well now there’s a 52.7% chance of us all dying. Those aren’t the _worst_ odds I suppose.”

Baze helps Chirrut into the ship and shouts at him to get his pack, before surveying the fight in a blink. There. He aims his blaster at the Viytss that’s about to throw a charged energy-javelin at Cassian and shoots it right between its bulging eyes. Its body drops from its vantage point into a cluster of its fellows laying down suppressing fire for the other mercs; the energy-javelin impales another two Viytss and the others are too distracted pushing three corpses out of the way to continue shooting. 

Bodhi takes out the one that’s almost on top of him by lunging to the right, jostling Jyn who holds on with a grim expression, and tossing something behind him. The bounty hunter leaps forward, convulses in a burst of voltage, and hits the ground sparking. Baze spares a heartbeat to bask in a flood of pride. Bodhi must’ve cobbled together a taser, a grenade, and maybe something else and tinkered with it to make it explode in a controlled manner. Baze has taught him very well.

Chirrut hollers, “Iokluce Crouch,” and Baze bends like the Jedhan desert shrub caught in a gale, throwing up his cape to disorient the Viytss that materializes to his left as a knife whistles past his ear to lodge in its jugular. The old Guardian maneuver puts him in the ideal position to yank out the blade—the merc gurgles around a spray of blood that narrowly misses Baze—and pistol-whip it in the face for good measure, his glittery pinky ring leaving an impression on its cheek.

Cassian clambers onto the hatch and hollers, “GO!” as Jyn and Bodhi careen into him and they fall upon the hatch button. Bodhi scrambles out from under Jyn to dash to the cockpit as Baze and Cassian keep firing even as the hatch closes. Rogue One lurches into the sky and everyone tries desperately not to slam face-first onto the floor. They break atmo and everyone heaves a sigh of relief when Bodhi punches in the coordinates for Rebellion-aligned space and they head back to base.

Cassian rounds on Baze lividly, “Where were you two? We never saw you leaving the club.”

“We avoided the Viytss and made the exchange with the informant. It was too last minute to reschedule, so the droid came and met us anyway. What happened to you? You didn’t make contact with me or K-2SO,” Baze replies coolly as he cleans off the knife and returns it to Chirrut’s pack.

“I resented the radio silence very much,” K-2SO snipes from the cockpit.

“We got ambushed by the Viytss and got chased through the city. My commlink was damaged. Jyn took a hit to the leg.”

“It’s just a graze,” she yells from the back as she applies a bacta plaster to her shin, “Bodhi just carried me because he’s got longer legs and so I could focus on providing cover-fire as we ran. Besides, I got six of them.”

“Jyn took a hit to the leg,” he repeats emphatically ignoring Jyn, “you two should’ve been with us.”

Baze grunts. He understands Cassian is irritable because of the close-call, but that isn’t his or Chirrut’s fault.

“We got the intel. We got out. What’s happened has happened there’s no point dwelling on it.”

“How did you guys avoid the Viytss?” Bodhi chimes in as Cassian scrubs at his forehead to calm down and joins him and K-2SO in the front.

Baze studiously ignores him as he goes over to the bench Chirrut is reclining on and sits his exhausted ass down. The red has receded from Chirrut’s neck, but his cheeks are still much rosier than can be attributed to the hasty escape alone. If Jyn’s muffled giggles are anything to go by, she knows how.

“Baze?” Bodhi asks again.

“Just fly the ship. We’re taking a nap.”

He hears K-2SO reel off something about “a Viytss taboo,” “elevated body temperature,” and “intercourse,” and Bodhi and Cassian’s corresponding spluttering. Well, now they know too.

Baze rests his chin on Chirrut’s head and his husband hums into the underside of his jaw, “Tired, old man?” 

Baze grumbles into his hair, “Be quiet,” and massages the nape of his neck, settling him down. Chirrut smiles peacefully and Baze can feel his breathing gradually slow in unison with his own. As his eyelids droop and his body relaxes, his husband stirs just enough to mumble: 

“You should keep the clothes. Wear them for our anniversary.”

**Author's Note:**

> THESE ARE THE PICS THAT INSPIRED BAZE'S LOOK:  
> http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-RxTnczBk2yo/Vie1O7Z1c-I/AAAAAAABMA4/zedrSsOaTDM/s1600/4.png  
> https://ae01.alicdn.com/kf/HTB1eGJELpXXXXbiXXXXq6xXFXXXu/2016-Newes-Fashion-Style-Autumn-Winter-Long-Sleeve-Male-font-b-Velvet-b-font-font-b.jpg  
> The clothing porn was so self-indulgent but I don't care I made Baze Malbus look fab. Leave a comment and tell me what you think!
> 
> Yo I'm a fucking dumbass I forgot to say I'm rockcandyshrike on Tumblr! Hit me up for whatever!
> 
> EDIT: I COMPLETELY FORGOT TO ADD THIS AMAZING ART THAT THE MOST EXCELLENT NANIIEBIM DREW: http://naniiebim.tumblr.com/post/159724973223/naniiebimworks-the-descrip-of-chirrut-in-a


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